


Lord Knows Who I'll Be

by dreamlittleyo



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Genderswap, Romance, Wordcount: 10.000-30.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 10.000, always-a-girl!Charles - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 19:26:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik doesn't know her name, but he dreams of her that night. He dreams piercing blue eyes and a cryptic smile. (<i>Movie-concurrent AU, genderswap, always-a-girl!Charles</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [giandujakiss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giandujakiss/gifts).



> As long as she can remember, she's simply been 'Charlie'. For all that her mother never approved of the nickname, Charlie's full name doesn't sit right on her shoulders.

Charlotte Frances Xavier. It's a very proper name. The kind of name that goes well with pencil skirts and high heels, with suit jackets and trust funds, with parties you only attend if you're impeccably dressed and have someone equally impeccable on your arm.

Charlie's never been big on high heels when she can avoid them. And though she's long since mastered the art of looking impeccable ( _no choice when you can see people's thoughts, especially in the circles her family has always moved in_ ), she'd just as soon shed 'proper' at the door. Easier to live in her own skin—in flat shoes and soft sweaters—than to trouble herself with what a proper lady would do every waking moment of the day.

If her mother were still alive, she'd probably be horrified with her daughter's choices. A dedicated student of the sciences. Genetics. ' _Really, Charlotte. If you're going to insist on an education, why not something more… appropriate_?' 

No, Charlie thinks. That voice is a phantom of a woman who thought she knew best, but really knew nothing at all when it came to her only daughter. 

Charlie is a scientist. And no one's voice in her head—not the memory of her mother nor the hundreds upon hundreds of people whose skeptical thoughts she overhears along the way—will change that simple fact.

Even if she were inclined towards an easier path, that's not how this works. Not for her. There are others out there—others like her—others with abilities, different in a way so fundamental that science _must_ be able to explain it. And somewhere, in the cryptic labyrinth of the human genome, Charlie knows she'll find the key.

\- — - — - — -

"Charlie." Raven's voice is a more welcome distraction than Charlie wants to admit.

"I'm busy." Charlie scowls and wonders how long the letters on the page have been blurring together this way. "If I don't finish reviewing this chapter, I'll make an idiot of myself tomorrow."

"You will not. God, stop being such a control freak. You've been studying since I got home." There's a rustle of movement in Charlie's peripheral vision as Raven approaches the desk. "Come down to the Bird with me. We’ll have a drink. And possibly a sandwich. Did you remember to eat today?"

Charlie pauses and considers, raising her eyes from the text she hasn't been reading anyway. The fact that she's not sure is probably a bad sign, though she vaguely remembers a plate of toast and a lot of coffee.

Her pause lasts long enough for Raven to draw her own conclusions. There's a soft, irritated huff, and then Raven rounds the desk and tugs at Charlie's arm.

"Up," she orders. "What would you do without me, seriously?"

"I'd get along just fine without you." She only says it because it's not true. They're sisters in all but blood, and Charlie lets fondness show on her face as Raven urges her upright.

"You'd be dead in a week," Raven mutters. But she's smiling, blue lips quirked in exasperated amusement. "Come on. I'm starving. And you _would_ be hungry if you'd pull your head out of those books for five minutes."

\- — - — - — -

There’s no shortage of cafes, and Erik chooses one mostly at random.

He prefers to spend his few calm days drinking good coffee in the open air, not sitting in a noisy, dirty city. Cities always feel restrictive in a way that sets his nerves jangling and leaves him twitchy. Better by far to find a place less frenetic, where he can get a good espresso and a table outdoors.

He watches people wander past, not because he's interested in them ( _trivialities, pampered lives, so many people with no fucking clue_ ), but because he's on his guard. No matter how carefully he covers his tracks, there's always the risk the tables will turn. How long can he be the hunter before someone catches on and starts hunting _him_?

So he watches people pass along the busy street. Rushing, sauntering, trudging with heavy packages in their arms. Couples and acquaintances and business partners.

Two women cross the street in roughly his direction, elbows linked in a warm gesture that speaks to friendship or family. The taller is a shapely blonde in a tight skirt, laughing, bright and unguarded. The other, brunette, wears a more reserved expression, though her smile seems genuine enough.

Both are beautiful, but Erik pays them little mind. There are plenty of beautiful women in Oxford, and anywhere else for that matter. Erik doesn't really have the time ( _or the inclination_ ) to indulge in such distractions.

His eyes drift uninterested from the two friends ( _sisters _), and his gaze gets caught on a different distraction. A mother and her young son have paused awkwardly at a busy spot near the café's main entrance. The boy has dropped something. Candy, his ice cream, something that matters enough to make his lower lip tremble with the threat of noisy tears.__

But the mother crouches beside him, and whatever she says, it smoothes the tremble away. There are no tears, just a hopeful expression that isn't quite a smile. 

Erik stares at them, and though he knows he should look elsewhere ( _pointless_ ) he can't. He has one weakness he's never been able to excise, and the sight of mother and son has knocked it loose in his chest. He clenches his jaw at the rageful wave of memory that roils through him, and he watches them turn to go. Even after they've disappeared into the heavy foot traffic, Erik's eyes stay focused where he saw them last.

A moment later, he starts at the sense of… _something_ , at the edge of his awareness. Something he can't place, like the brush of an afterthought or a forgotten task. And then the sudden, jarring sense that he's being watched ( _how did he not notice, he's trained himself to_ always _notice_ ). 

He raises his eyes and finds the woman watching him. The brunette from moments before, though the blonde is nowhere in sight. She stands closer now, only a few feet away, on the other side of the ornate railing that blocks the café seating off from the passing crowds.

She's watching him now with an expression as intense as it is indecipherable, and Erik looks more closely. Nothing about her feels like a threat, but he's unaccustomed to receiving such focus from strangers. He makes a point of not drawing attention.

Her dark hair is cut short and close to her head, styled to frame her face in a way that looks artfully accidental. She's more shapely than she looked standing beside her friend's pronounced curves, though her skirt and sweater don't do much to emphasize her figure.

Her blue eyes are so bright that for a moment Erik has trouble meeting them.

"Can I help you?" he asks, and the words come out rough.

"Are you all right?" The woman's voice is a rich alto, smooth and cautious.

Despite the caution in her tone, Erik's anger flares at the question. How dare she, a complete stranger, how dare _anyone_ presume—

"My mistake." The woman's voice is softer now, and she takes a step back. "Forgive me."

Then she's gone, and Erik wonders why he suddenly feels even more alone than he did before.

  


Charlie catches up with Raven at the pub, and receives a warily arched eyebrow for her trouble.

"What was that about?" Raven asks. "Was that guy a classmate?"

"No. I've never seen him before in my life."

"What the hell, Charlie? I mean sure, he was hot, but you're the one who needed to run errands. Couldn't you wait until we finish before you start picking up guys?"

"I wasn't trying to pick him up." She really wasn't. It's only now, with Raven's commentary, that Charlie even acknowledges the man was attractive. His looks weren't what called her attention. It was the shadow of an old hurt, absent one moment and overpowering the next. It was the depth of shattered feeling, and the way it sang as though it was a message meant for her.

Raven is watching her expectantly, and Charlie gives a helpless shrug. "He was in pain."

Raven's expression shifts, turning worried and sympathetic by turns, and she steps closer. Charlie would change the subject if she could think of anything to say.

"Charlie, a lot of people are in pain." Charlie's gaze cuts to the floor, but Raven's voice continues with the familiar argument. "You can't try to fix every broken heart that throws itself in your path."

"I know." Charlie raises her eyes, frowns in thought. "But he was… different."

"Different how?"

Charlie shrugs again, helpless to explain. "I don't know. He was more… _something _. He was…" She breathes a frustrated sound, exasperated at not being able to put her certainty into words. "I don't _know___ ," she says, voice rising more fiercely than she intends.

"Hey, easy. Don't freak out on me."

"It feels like I fucked up," Charlie confesses.

"Fucked up how?"

"I think he needed me."

Raven's hand is warm on her arm, a reassuring squeeze as Raven shakes her head. "He's a total stranger. If he's messed up, that's his problem. Not yours."

She's right. She's absolutely right. 

So why does Charlie feel like she just missed something important?

\- — - — - — -

Erik doesn't know her name, but he dreams of her that night. He dreams piercing blue eyes and a cryptic smile. 

"I don't know you," he says. 

"Does that matter?" 

They're standing atop a towering edifice, all steel and glass and heavy stone. The sky is grim, the wind heavy, but Erik feels confident in his footing. There's enough metal beneath them that even if the wind picks up, he'll have no trouble keeping his balance.

Erik doesn't recognize this place. Aware as he is that this is a dream, he wonders where  
his subconscious conjured it from. 

"It's going to rain," the woman says, and her voice carries too much grim weight for the casual words. 

"Who are you?"

She shifts her weight and turns away from him, towards the edge of the building and the darkest corner of the sky. The clouds in that direction hang low, jagged and sickly green, shifting constantly eastward on the vicious wind. When the woman walks to the edge of the roof, Erik's gut clenches despite the steadiness of her steps.

"Be careful," he calls, following her instinctively.

"Why? I've never died in a dream."

But Erik is the one who's dreaming, and people die in his dreams all the time. Every night. People he knows, people he's never met, people he's killed or intends to kill. And even though she's just a memory—even though this _is_ a dream, and the woman is as inconsequential now as she was on the street today—Erik doesn't want her to die.

He's close enough to touch her now, and he grabs her roughly by the elbow. He jerks her back a step, more sharply than he intends, then turns her in his hands and grasps her by the arms. 

He's trapped, then. Her eyes are even bluer now than they were a moment before, and she stares at him through dark bangs that whip wildly in the wind. She's beautiful, Erik realizes. She's a distraction. Thank goodness she's just a dream.

"Who are you?" he asks again. His voice is a whisper so soft the wind might as well have carried it away.

Her brow knits, and he can't tell if the shadow crossing her face is confusion or disapproval. Maybe both. She still doesn't answer, but then how could she? She's a face passing in a crowd. Erik doesn't _know_ who she is; how can his subconscious provide answers to impossible questions?

She reaches for him, for his face. She brushes his hair aside and scrutinizes him with an intensity that sets Erik's skin tingling. She's shorter than him by almost a foot, and Erik thinks he should let go and step back. 

He doesn't.

"I don't know you, either," she says, and she sounds almost… 

Surprised.

She sounds surprised.

When Erik wakes, he feels like he's missed something important.

  


Charlie spends the entire day staring down her impending thesis. She's a good student; she'll be ready for this ( _she will_ ). But it's still daunting in the extreme, and by evening her head is spinning from reading, and rereading, and taking notes she's already forgotten five minutes later.

At just past seven, Raven intercepts the book she's reaching for and says, "We're going out. Come on. Up."

They're halfway to the pub when Charlie admits to Raven, "I had a dream about that guy from yesterday." She's not sure why she even needs to admit it. It was just a dream, and not a particularly saucy one at that. 

"What kind of dream?" Raven asks.

"A weird one."

"Not a sexy one?"

Charlie snorts and shakes her head. "Not really, no."

And there's more she means to say, maybe. Possibly. There's just something about him, or about the dream, something that feels wrong and strange and startlingly familiar. But then there's the pub, and it's noisy and perfect. Brightly lit, and full of bodies and laughter, the background buzz of tipsy thoughts at the periphery of her senses. 

Charlie likes noisy pubs. She likes the emotional energy that runs loudly through the patrons; celebrations and nights out with friends, cheery and raucous. There's the usual glum thundercloud in a corner, but one or two unhappy minds can't compete with all the ruckus of a lively bar, and Charlie feels her mood brighten as she follows Raven to an open table.

Her mood brightens further on her second beer, when she catches sight of the tall gentleman leaning casually on one corner of the bar. He's clearly waiting for the bartender's attention, patient as half a dozen other voices vie to order drinks. In profile his eyes look dark, his mouth thin but smiling, his hair tugged back into a slick ponytail that curls over one shoulder.

He's pretty, if not precisely what she's looking for ( _not that she's ever looking for anything specific_ ), and a smile spreads across her face as she considers her strategy. 

"No," Raven's voice interrupts her thoughts.

"Pardon?"

"No. That guy you're eyeing up? I've seen him in here before. He's a stupid decision waiting to happen."

Charlie takes her eyes off the man at the bar and looks at Raven, trying not to let her expression slip into an outright glare. Which of them is the telepath here, after all? 

"You're not going home with him," Raven informs her blandly.

"I'm pretty sure that's my decision, not yours."

Raven's eyes narrow, challenge or disapproval. Both, maybe. But an instant later her expression smoothes out, her shoulders slumping in a careless shrug.

"You know what? Fine. It's your awkward morning after, not mine." Then she stands, leaving her empty glass on the table. "I'm going to the ladies' room."

Charlie is already chatting up Mr. Ponytail ( _Anton, he tells her with a smile_ ) when she feels Raven return, a murmur of familiar mental noise running smoothly over the the hubbub. She pays little enough mind, even when the sensation of Raven's mind moves in closer.

But she should pay better attention, clearly. A moment later someone tall drapes an arm across Charlie's shoulders, and a deep voice, bass and male, says, "Where's my drink, babe?"

Charlie stiffens at the look of trepidation that flashes in Anton's eyes.

"Raven," she says, an angry hint of warning in her voice.

"Who's your new friend?" Raven asks, ignoring the warning tone and tightening her grip on Charlie's shoulder. There's the barest edge of hostility in the masculine voice, as she sells a pitch-perfect jealous boyfriend without overplaying her hand.

"Nobody," Anton says, pushing back from the bar. He nearly leaves his beer in his haste to retreat.

Charlie shrugs out from Raven's arm and turns to glare up at the strong, handsome face Raven has chosen for the occasion. No one Charlie recognizes, though she thinks she'd know Raven's eyes no matter what color, no matter what face she saw them in.

"Fuck you," Charlie says calmly, then pays her tab and storms out of the pub.

\- — - — - — -

She's still annoyed two hours later, when she's back to studying for her thesis. But the edge of active ire has worn off in the face of the reality that Raven was probably right. Whether or not the guy was a bad decision, Charlie's too focused on her schoolwork and the fast-approaching end of the term to savor such indulgences right now. She would probably have made it less than an hour before enjoyment of Anton's company gave way to the inevitable itch of returning to her research and her thesis notes.

She can hear Raven in the bathroom, movements louder than necessary and thoughts a pensive rustle of conflicting emotions. Charlie doesn't press deeper, curious though she is about just what's bothering Raven tonight. She promised never to read Raven's thoughts, and whatever Charlie's faults, she keeps her promises.

There's the rush of the tap, and then a squeak as the water shuts off. Then footsteps so quiet Charlie almost doesn't hear them, as Raven moves to stand in the bathroom doorway.

The weight of Raven's stare is almost enough to make Charlie set down her pen and demand to know what the problem is. But she keeps her mouth shut. She waits, more out of pointless stubbornness than out of patience. She waits until finally Raven speaks.

"Would you date me?"

There's a serious edge to the question, for all that it's clearly hypothetical, and Charlie hesitates. She keeps her eyes on her notes as she answers.

"I don't date women." In Charlie's peripheral vision she sees Raven shift her weight, blue skin contrasting sharply with the white fabric of her bathrobe. "But," Charlie amends. "Hypothetically. If I did? Then sure, I'd date you."

"Looking like this?" Raven's voice drips with heavy skepticism.

Charlie raises her gaze at last, and she finds something wary watching her from Raven's eyes. A cautious uncertainty, as though Raven is bracing herself for something unpleasant. Charlie wishes she could pry with her mind, wishes she could look deeper and figure out what's brought this on. Raven has been concerned with her looks recently, a fact Charlie has noticed more than once; but since she's not sure where this is coming from, she's equally unsure how to respond.

Honesty is probably the best policy, considering.

"Blue?" Charlie clarifies. Raven's lips thin in wordless confirmation, and Charlie says, "Why not?"

Raven looks surprised, but some of the wary caution fades.

"Though, I'll be honest," Charlie continues, standing from her desk and grabbing a smaller tome on evolution. "It might be a little too weird, considering you’re my sister. I don't really see it working out." She keeps her tone light, watches for the reluctant smile that quirks at one corner of Raven's mouth. 

And then, because sometimes Charlie doesn't know how to quit when she's ahead, she asks, "Raven, what is this really about? What's wrong?"

Quick as that, Raven closes off. Even the tickling murmur of her thoughts turns guarded as her eyes cut away from Charlie's face. 

"Nothing," she says. "I'm going to bed. Good night, Charlie." 

She disappears into her room, leaving Charlie with uncomfortable questions, guilty for reasons she can't put her finger on. Charlie sits on the verge of understanding something she doesn't want to understanding. The knowledge is nebulous, but it hovers close, twisting uncomfortably just beneath the surface of her thoughts.

She draws a slow, single breath, then lets it out. Inhales again. As she breathes out a second time, she takes these new worries and tucks them away. She puts them in the corner of her mind where she keeps all the things she doesn't think about, locked behind chains and steel and heavy stone.

It's a very effective corner. She's gotten good at burying things behind those walls, where they can't hurt her.

Charlie can't help thinking that if she let the things in that corner out to play, she wouldn't be a very good person.


	2. Chapter 2

Shaw's submarine is disappearing—Shaw is _escaping_ —and no matter how hard Erik pulls, he can't stop the vessel's descent into deeper water. He follows, dragged along by his power, by his stubborn inability to let go. 

There's only one way this can end now, but he can't make himself relinquish his hold.

Then there's someone in the water with him. Someone with strong hands, clinging to him as tightly as Erik is clinging to the retreating sub. There's a startling sense of familiarity, and then a woman's voice in his thoughts telling him ( _begging him_ ) to let go. Telling him to calm his mind.

Erik recognizes that voice, but he doesn't know why. 

He lets go, and they break the surface, treading water, gasping. He shoves away from those clinging hands, but he can't get a good look at his unwanted rescuer.

"You were in my head," he gasps, blinking and struggling to clear his vision. "How did you do that?"

"You have your tricks, I have mine," comes the voice, aloud this time. "Now _calm_ your _mind_!" 

Despite himself, Erik does.

It's not until they're aboard the coastguard vessel that Erik gets a better look. Short dark hair, sticking up at odd angles, and sodden clothes clinging wetly to the slim frame beneath. Blue eyes.

"I _know_ you," Erik realizes, and his eyes widen. 

There are people approaching them now, moving around them. Erik ignores everyone but this strange, familiar woman. He strides toward her and grasps her shoulders, and though he holds on too tightly, she doesn't complain.

"I want answers. How did you do that? _Why_ did you do that?" ' _Why did you save me_?' he wants to ask.

"I'm sorry for invading your mind," she says, and her voice is unsteady. "I didn't know how else to reach you. You would have died."

She's shivering beneath his hands, and Erik realizes that's where the tremble in her voice is coming from. Christ, she must be freezing. He's wearing a proper wetsuit and he's cold enough, but this woman—this strange, familiar, terrifying woman—leapt into the water without a thought, and now she's shaking so hard Erik can feel it through his arms.

Approaching crewmen intercept them, separate them, and then there are worried faces, dry towels, warm blankets. There are hands guiding and dragging him away, taking the woman a different direction, and Erik concedes that he won't be getting any answers just now.

\- — - — - — -

There are awkward introductions. Then there's a plane ride, a cramped car ride, and no real opportunity to get to know the man Charlie recognizes from a stilted exchange outside a crowded café.

She feels like she knows him anyway.

The government facility puts overwhelming ideas in Charlie's head. She always knew she and Raven couldn't be alone, but reality is fast eclipsing what was merely theoretical knowledge. There's Erik, there's Hank, there are _more_ mutants out there, and Charlie wants to find them. She wants to help them, to share the most important gospel she knows: you're not alone. 

She wants to take her knowledge and craft something incredible out of it; rearrange the world just enough to make something _good_.

It's an intimidating dream, but Charlie's never really been one for small ambitions.

She wishes Erik could see this facility the way she does. Opportunity. She wants him to stay. But Erik has other plans.

Charlie waits for him outside, because she has to make him understand.

"From what I know about you, I'm surprised you managed to stay this long."

Erik startles and freezes in place. Charlie holds herself deliberately impassive, despite the defensive hostility that rushes along the surface of Erik's thoughts.

"What do you know about me?" Erik demands, turning to regard Charlie with accusing eyes. The sky hangs midnight dark above them, but there's light enough from the lampposts along the cement walkway. Charlie has a clear-lit view of the distrust darkening Erik's gaze.

"I know more than you realize," she says. Ambiguous. He won't like the ambiguity. But he'll like it even less if she admits how deeply she's seen, how few secrets he truly has from her.

"Then you should know to stay out of my head."

"I'm sorry, Erik, but it's too late for that. I've seen what Shaw did to you." Erik flinches, and Charlie steps closer. Her shoes tap lightly along the cement, and she doesn't take her eyes off him as she draws close, right up to his elbow. Their arms brush as she reaches him, and he doesn't shy away. He just looks down at her, wary shadows shifting behind his eyes.

"I could help you," she says.

"I don't need your help."

"Don't you?"

Erik looks away, dropping his gaze to the pavement. It's a concession, and clearly a difficult one, and Charlie sets a hand on his arm.

"Erik, please. If you leave now, it's not just me you'll be walking away from. All this… we could make a difference. We could start something good here."

"Do you really believe that?" Erik's disbelief flashes so fiercely it crowds in on Charlie's thoughts, clouding the midnight quiet. But Charlie's own convictions are stronger, and she squares her shoulders, stands taller, even though Erik still isn't looking at her.

"I do," she says.

Erik's disbelief only intensifies, clouds over with a dark, tired, angry skepticism. Charlie can't help feeling as though his skepticism is aimed as much at her as it is the cause she's barely tried putting into words.

"You don't think I'm up to the task?" That hurts more than she expects. She barely knows this man; why should she care what he thinks of her?

"I think you don't realize just how ambitious the task is," Erik counters.

A cool chill of certainty settles in Charlie's chest, and she says, "You're underestimating me. You think I don't know what people are capable of." Erik's posture stiffens, but it's the wavering of his surface thoughts that tells Charlie she's getting through. "Erik, I'm a telepath. I see the best and the worst in people every day."

"You haven't seen the worst in me."

"No?" She doesn't tell him that she has. She simply lets the uncertainty hover between them.

"If you had, you wouldn't be standing here trying to stop me from leaving. You'd find someone better to recruit."

Charlie doesn't want better. She wants _him_. She wants him by her side, wants his ferocity, his intensity to share in her cause. It needs to be him, though she'd be hard-pressed to explain why she's so sure, so quickly.

She drops her hand and steps in front of him, waiting until at last he meets her eyes. 

"You've done unforgivable things," she concedes. She still doesn't admit just how much she knows. But as he watches her, she lets a hint of the darkness creep out from the most heavily guarded corner of her mind. She lets him see unguarded shadows in her eyes, innocence dropping away like scattered water. 

She shows him her most honest face. The one that meets her eyes in the mirror when she's alone. The one even Raven hasn't seen, tinged and tainted by the things Charlie never, ever thinks about.

Erik's eyes widen a fraction.

"You're not the only one." She waits a beat and then hides it all away again, as quickly and thoroughly as she can. She banishes the darkness from her thoughts, from her eyes. She squares her shoulders with fresh determination, and meets Erik's startled gaze without flinching.

"You're right," Erik says. "I _have_ underestimated you." There's heavy consideration in his eyes, muting the skepticism that still hasn't vanished entirely. "I won't make that mistake again."

After what she just showed him, Charlie's not sure how he'll respond to being touched, but she reaches for him anyway. His chest is warm beneath her palm, his heartbeat steady.

"I want you to stay," she says. "I might be able to do this alone, but I'd rather do it with you." 

Before he can say no, she drops her hand to her side and walks away.

\- — - — - — -

Despite every instinct screaming at him to disappear, Erik stays. He keeps the stolen dossier on Shaw, locked in his briefcase beneath the mattress in the hotel room he rents that night. But the next morning he returns to the facility, and Charlie pretends to be surprised to see him.

He wonders if she already knew what he would choose, even as she walked away last night.

He wonders if it matters.

\- — - — - — -

Watching Charlie use Cerebro is awful and thrilling. It's also absolutely terrifying. Erik knows the numbers printing out from the machine represent mutants, dozens of them, maybe hundreds. Coordinates. He should watch that list as the paper fills, but he can't take his eyes off of Charlie.

Her expression is one Erik barely recognizes, and it takes him long moments to interpret: _joy_. It's joy so intense Erik can't imagine what it feels like.

When the machine turns off, exhaustion settles upon her like a physical weight. She laughs as she leans on Raven, and Erik is surprised at the surge of jealousy that washes through him at the sight. He stayed. He stayed for _her_. It should be him she's leaning on now. 

Erik wants to protect, to support, to touch. He wants to put himself between this woman and anything that might hurt her, despite the practical voice of wisdom reminding him that all dreams are doomed to the same eventual fate. 

Charlie finds him hours later, in a sterile concrete corridor. She hugs him warmly, rising onto her toes to wrap her arms around his shoulders. She's smiling when she draws back. When she brushes his mind, Erik feels it. 

"Thank you," she says. 

And then she's gone, retreating down the hall, and all Erik can do is watch her until she disappears.

\- — - — - — -

"I want to go with you," Raven says, watching Charlie pack with wary eyes.

Charlie doesn't have much to pack. She didn't bring much with her in the first place. But she tarries over the task now. Keeping her hands busy is easier than sitting opposite Raven and actually meeting her eyes. There's an undercurrent of something a little too much like jealousy projecting unchecked from Raven's thoughts, and Charlie's not keen on facing this conversation head-on. 

"I don't think that's a good idea," Charlie says, wedging a pair of socks into a corner of her suitcase. "We'll be approaching people who are skittish about their abilities. Better if we don't outnumber them too much, I think."

"That's not the real reason you won't let me come."

She's right, of course. The real reason is Erik, who insists that only he and Charlie approach the mutants they hope to recruit. Part mistrust, part cautious tactics, part something else that Charlie couldn't put into words if she tried. 

She could probably convince Erik to let Raven accompany them, but the truth is she'll feel better knowing Raven is here at the facility. Safer for Raven to stay behind, because Charlie will be focused on other things during this trip. She won't be able to protect Raven the way she should.

"You don't need to protect me," Raven grumbles, which means Charlie's not doing a very good job of guarding her expression. 

But Charlie will always need to protect Raven. She's been doing it too long to learn how to stop now.

"Besides," Raven adds. "You don't even know him. He's a total stranger. Can you really trust him so quickly?"

"He's not a stranger." Charlie closes the lid on her suitcase and clasps it shut. "He's Erik. And yes, I trust him. I've been in his head, Raven. I'll be perfectly safe." There may be ugliness in Erik's thoughts, in his memories. But Charlie knows, with the confidence of having looked into a man's soul, that Erik would never hurt her.

"Charlie," Raven says, and her tone is different. Softer, and a little bit sad. 

Charlie turns and finds Raven's yellow eyes peering at her with guarded intensity. Raven's expression is closed off, and so is her posture, arms and legs crossed and shoulders tight.

Nebulous guilt lodges in Charlie's chest, and she moves to sit beside Raven on the edge of the bed. She lets their shoulders brush and tries to ignore the wash of fondness-and-something-more that trickles uninvited from Raven's mind.

"You don't need to worry about me," Charlie says.

"You're such a hypocrite." Raven sounds more exasperated than angry, at least. "You're allowed to protect me, but you won't let me return the favor. You get that it'd kill me if something happened to you, right? What if you run into trouble out there? I could help."

"We're not discussing this, Raven." Charlie keeps her tone gentle. "The arrangements have already been made. We'll be back before you know it."

Raven's posture loosens tiredly, and she leans against Charlie's side, dropping her head onto Charlie's shoulder.

"Promise you'll be careful."

"I will."

\- — - — - — -

Erik asks once, about the darkness he saw in Charlie's eyes the night she asked him to stay. 

He watches Charlie's gaze drift over the other patrons of the café. She takes a sip of coffee and makes no indication that she intends to answer the question.

"You don't want to tell me," Erik notes, surprised to find he actually feels hurt at the rejection.

"It's not that," Charlie says, stirring some sugar into her coffee. "Just… not now. Not here."

"Another time, then?"

"Yes," Charlie says, sounding grateful for the reprieve. 

"Promise you'll tell me." Perhaps it's a demand he has no right to make. But he'll demand it just the same.

"I promise."

\- — - — - — -

He dreams of Charlie that night. Perhaps it's only the second time, or perhaps he simply doesn't remember the rest. He dreams of a green lawn, grass so emerald it stings his vision, and of stone walls rising tall in the distance. It's unfamiliar ground. 

He knows this is a dream the second he sees her.

"Won't you sit?" she asks. She's perched on a wind-rustled hill, crushing the grass beneath her palms and legs. Her ankles are crossed, her face turned towards the sky.

"Where is this place?" Erik asks, curious what this figment means, what this landscape represents, as though a figure conjured by his subconscious can possibly answer such questions for him. Ridiculous. He sits beside her anyway. He ends up closer than he intends, her heat seeping into his side.

"New York," she says. "Westchester." Then she turns and looks at him, so close there's no escaping the piercing blue of her eyes. "You shouldn't be here, you know."

Erik's never been to Westchester, New York. He's never sat on a hill quite like this. And suddenly the foreign sense of his surroundings tugs at him, twists in his head with a feeling of wrongness, like he doesn't belong in his own dream.

Something isn't right. Erik stares back at Charlie, into the bright intensity of her eyes, and abrupt understanding hits him like a collision.

"You're doing this," he says. "You're not just some figment of my subconscious mind."

She looks away, intensity banking as she turns her eyes to the distance and doesn't answer.

"But not on purpose," Erik realizes.

"I'm sorry," Charlie murmurs. "Normally I'm much better at staying out of other people's heads when I'm dreaming.

"It's all right," he says.

He's not just placating her. Surprisingly enough, he genuinely doesn't mind. For all that the contours of the dream feel wrong around him, Charlie's presence feels utterly, indescribably _right_. She turns surprised eyes on him, and there's the hint of a smile at one corner of her mouth.

"You really don't mind."

Erik considers her for a moment, silent and frank. He doesn't know why he trusts her. Perhaps because she would have let him walk away. Perhaps because she could have stopped him, but she didn't. Perhaps because she's already saved him once, when the last thing Erik thought he wanted was saving.

He's already so close, and then he's reaching for her. Her hair is soft between his fingers, and she leans into the touch, presses her cheek into his palm and watches him with unmasked curiosity.

"You belong here," he says.

The hint of a smile transforms into a wide, warm grin, and then Charlie shifts beside him. She curls against him, dropping her head to his shoulder, wrapping an arm around his side. She curls herself around him and tucks her face beneath his chin, and her warmth is a sensation both welcome and overwhelming.

"Thank you," she whispers, and Erik wraps an arm around her and tugs her closer.

When Erik wakes, it's to an empty bed, in an equally empty hotel room, and he wonders if he's losing his mind.

\- — - — - — -

Some of the mutants they approach are interested, some tell them to fuck off. 

In the end there are four who agree to come along for the ride. Angel, Darwin, Sean, Alex. Charlie begins to feel like they've got a fighting chance against whatever Shaw is planning.

She and Erik share dreams almost nightly now, because Charlie does nothing to resist the instincts that pull her into Erik's mind. For all that she's on guard for some rebuff, he never tells her to get out. 

By the time they return to the government facility—to Raven and Hank—Charlie has known Erik Lehnsherr for just over one week. 

She's known him for one week, but she can't pretend anymore that she doesn't know what this is.

She'd probably have put it together even sooner, but she's never been in love before. 

For all their growing closeness, Erik has never indicated that he feels the same. Even in their shared dreams, even as he draws her close and lets her in further than he perhaps even realizes, he never makes an overt move. 

Charlie wonders if it's reticence, or if he simply isn't interested. She's in his mind multiple times a day, albeit superficially, but his thoughts do little to clarify the mystery. Whatever his feelings, he spends most of his time ignoring them. He's a focused man with a focused mind, and Charlie can decipher nothing without delving deeper: a line she has no intention of crossing ( _again_ ) uninvited.

Then there's Russia, just Charlie and Erik and a team of competent CIA agents taking a chance on a covert mission. They don't include their new recruits, or Hank and Raven ( _'the children', Charlie's brain insists on calling them, even though she's not much older than they are herself_ ), and Charlie does her best not to think about Raven's unspoken fear and accusation.

Shaw doesn't show, but Emma has information. A plan, a future, a disaster in the making. Charlie pulls it from her mind easily, once Erik coaxes her out of diamond form. It's a vision she'll never burn from her mind, though she knows she'll spend the rest of her life trying.

Erik looks at her differently after they leave the villa. There's a sharp-edged respect in his eyes that wasn't there before. He looks at her not like a threat exactly, but like a force to be reckoned with. Like he hadn't truly considered before, what she might truly be capable of.

"Did I surprise you?" she asks when they're finally alone, waiting in a designated clearing for the helicopter that will start their return journey.

"No. I said I wouldn't underestimate you again." He says it with a brutal smile, and Charlie finds it odd that the expression comforts her when it should probably be setting her on edge. "But I wonder if the humans realize."

"Realize what?" Charlie crosses her arms and hunches her shoulders against the wind.

"Which of us is the greater threat."

Charlie doesn't like to think of herself as a threat. She doesn't like to think of herself as dangerous, much as she knows the terrifying reach of her own abilities. 

So she takes Erik's words and she tucks them away, in the same shadowed corner where all her worst secrets live.


	3. Chapter 3

Erik wonders if Shaw deliberately timed his attack on the facility to coincide with their absence. 

Unlikely. He wouldn't have sent Emma Frost to Russia without reinforcements if he'd known what the CIA was planning. While Erik doubts the man possesses any instincts like loyalty, there's no tactical advantage to letting the enemy see his plans, or landing Emma Frost in custody.

Unfortunate coincidence, then, but Erik still should have known. He should never have trusted the humans' protection. It's not a mistake he intends to repeat.

When they arrive at the Xavier estate, Erik recognizes the sprawling stretch of the grounds. He's been here, he realizes, though never while awake.

Erik watches Charlie carefully as they tour the grounds, though Raven leads the way. He watches Charlie even after the tour has concluded, as everyone settles into the rooms they've claimed. There's obvious conflict in Charlie's reactions to this place. The split fascinates Erik and renews his curiosity in subjects better left alone.

Erik has never been good at walking away when he wants information. As afternoon draws into the darkening skies of evening, he watches Charlie's reactions even more closely.

There's comfort at times—an easy carelessness that comes from being on her own home turf. There are no surprises for her here. But at other times an unhappy tension shadows her face, making her brow furrow and her jaw clench, her slender hands curl into fists at her sides. She hides those reactions away when she perceives anyone looking, but Erik still sees. He puts together what he can, but the picture is incomplete.

His instincts tell him enough to guess, but he needs to know for sure, and he corners Charlie in the foyer after everyone else has retired.

"You promised you'd tell me," he reminds her.

She gives him a hard look, displeased and maybe even angry.

"I don't really want to have this conversation right now."

But Erik moves closer. Charlie stands several steps up the wide staircase, and Erik stops at the base of the stairs, resting a hand on the banister and tilting his head back to look her in the eye. 

"It happened here, didn't it? Somewhere on these grounds. Somewhere in this mansion." 

Charlie doesn't respond, but her answer is obvious enough in the silence.

"What did you do?"

"What do you think?" Charlie asks. There's no anger in the question, no sharp edge or vitriol. There's just a tired curiosity, as though she genuinely wants to know.

They're already speaking quietly, but Erik lowers his voice even further when he says, "I think you killed someone."

Shadows creep into Charlie's eyes, reminding Erik of a midnight sky and a lamp-lit sidewalk. Was that really less than two weeks ago? He recognizes the darkness in Charlies's face, and though it chills him, it does nothing to quell his curiosity.

"Tell me," he pleads.

"He didn't die here," Charlie says. "But he might as well have." She pauses, swallowing tightly, and a visible tremor passes through her. "I hollowed him out. I took everything that made him a person, and I erased it. I put him in a coma."

Erik waits: for her to continue, for her words to sink in, he's honestly not sure which. He waits, and the silence grows stifling in the high-ceilinged foyer. Charlie watches him as though trying to gauge his reaction, and when Erik says nothing, she finally breaks the silence.

"Before you ask: no. It wasn't an accident."

Erik could have guessed that much. He takes a step towards her, then another, moving up the stairs until he stands on the step directly beneath her. It puts them almost perfectly eye-to-eye, and he could touch her now. 

He doesn't.

"Who was he?"

"My stepfather. To the day he died, Mother never stopped hoping he'd wake up. And I never had the guts to tell her he was gone."

"But you said he didn't die." 

Except that's not what she said, Erik realizes. She said he didn't die _here_. 

"He didn't at first. I destroyed his mind, but his body kept right on breathing." Charlie's voice drops to a bare whisper, and she says, "Until I stopped that, too."

"Oh."

Erik wants to ask what the man did. He wants to understand. Because he knows somehow, with vicious certainty, that Charlie's stepfather brought his fate upon himself. Violence, perhaps. Probably. But it's none of Erik's business. He's demanded enough answers tonight.

"He was an angry drunk," Charlie explains, even though Erik didn't ask. "I could handle him, mostly. Once I started to understand my abilities."

"But something happened."

A pause, and Charlie's face turns away, her eyes cutting to the side.

"He hurt Raven."

A new silence fills the vaulted space, twisting between and around them, tight with comprehension and complicity. Erik has done terrible things to people—plenty of people—for daring to harm those he loved.

"Does she know what you did?" he finally asks. When Charlie doesn't look at him, Erik curls his index finger beneath her chin, and turns her head so that their eyes meet.

"No," Charlie says at last. "She doesn't know. And she never will. I'm not putting this on her." 

Erik drops his hand to his side.

"Thank you for telling me."

When Charlie turns and hurries up the stairs, Erik doesn't follow.

  


Charlie spends most of the night struggling with the darker corners of her own mind. It takes concerted effort to tuck things back into their proper places, hidden in boxes and buried in the dark, so she can rebuild the walls around them. The walls don't feel as strong as they did before, but they'll suffice.

She faces Erik with her accustomed warmth in the morning, and her attitude doesn't feel forced. Her secrets are back where they belong. 

But there's something sharp and knowing in Erik's eyes, and he stops her in a quiet corner near the kitchen. His fingers are warm on her wrist, and he stands too close.

"You don't have to do that."

"Do what?" she asks, confused and inexplicably terrified.

"You don't have to be someone else. Not for me, not for anyone. Even if he didn't deserve what happened, one mistake wouldn't make you a monster."

For a moment Charlie fears Erik will press the issue. If he keeps looking at her with that raw intensity, her protective walls might crumble to pieces around her.

But he lets go before that happens, and when he steps back there are no secrets on display in his eyes.

\- — - — - — -

Erik doesn't feel like he's much use training the kids ( _who aren't children, not really, but he can't seem to reclassify them in his head_ ). Mostly he stands on the sidelines and watches Charlie work with them, and all the while Erik feels like an ineffectual shadow.

He trains on his own sometimes, but there's not much he can do that he hasn't already accomplished. He knows his own limitations. What's the point of trying to hone a skill he already knows so intimately?

But Erik watches Charlie, and with each day that goes by, he sees her draw more and better from each of her students. His admiration turns to awe in the face of the way she coaches and coaxes and sometimes cajoles until she gets results. 

There's an unaccustomed warmth in Erik's chest when he looks at her, and he's suddenly unsure how long the feeling has been there. Days? Weeks? Perhaps it's been there since the moment Charlie threw herself into the water and convinced him to let go.

He means to keep his distance until he's had a chance to process the unexpected feelings. He means to approach this with the rational caution he applies to every puzzle. 

He _doesn't_ intend to grab her just outside the library, or to trap her against the wall with a kiss that surprises both of them. 

Her mouth is pliant beneath his, her body warm in his hands. He holds tighter than he should, heedless of any bruises he might leave behind. He can't think clearly enough to consider moderation or restraint, can't think at all beyond the startling revelation of how badly he wants to touch her. 

By the time he draws back, her arms are around his shoulders, her lips swollen from the intensity of his kiss. There are apologies on Erik's tongue, quick and guilty. 

The apologies evaporate unspoken when Charlie smiles up at him without letting go.

"Thank god," she breathes. "What took you so long?"

"I've known you less than three weeks."

"Feels like longer." And then, maybe because Erik is staring at her mouth, she asks, "Are you going to do that again?"

And yes, Erik is most definitely going to do that again. That and more, if she'll have him. 

But a second later, Charlie's head turns aside, and her eyes fix on a point at the far end of the hall. Erik wonders why, until he hears the soft murmur of approaching conversation.

He steps back with reluctance, and Charlie's arms slide from his shoulders and fall to her sides, just as Moira and Hank round the corner at the end of the hall.

"Professor," Moira says as they approach. "We've been looking for you."

"Is there a problem?" Charlie asks.

"No," says Hank. "Just some questions about the equipment I'm designing."

Charlie gives Erik a private, apologetic look, but lets herself be drawn away. Erik watches her go, and he marvels at the covetous twist of emotion in his chest. He banishes those instincts for the time being, and makes his grudging way to his own empty room.

\- — - — - — -

Charlie refuses to even pick up the gun when he firsts suggests the 'exercise'. The thought of curling her fingers around the cool metal of the weapon leaves her stomach clenching unpleasantly.

"First? No. I'm not going to shoot you in the head, even if you _can_ deflect the bullet. Second, how is it a challenge if you already know you can do it?"

The air is cool despite the steady sunlight, and Charlie glares at the weapon in Erik's hand. Consternation creases Erik's brow, and he drops the gun to his side.

"Then what do you suggest?"

Charlie has already considered this question, and she tilts her head towards the enormous satellite array in the distance.

"Something a little more ambitious, perhaps." Something vast and heavy, like the submarine Erik was trying to raise when they first truly met. Charlie sees the flicker of comprehension in his eyes, followed quickly by a flash of disbelief.

"You can't be serious."

"Why not?"

"I can't just _decide_ to move something that big." Erik is staring at her now, startled and incredulous. "I would need the right situation, the anger—"

"No," Charlie says. Erik stares at her with unvarnished skepticism, and she grabs him by the arm and tugs him farther down the slope, away from the gravel drive and over to the low stone wall.

"You can do this, Erik," she says, and watches him raise his arms.

He tries. He tries so hard his face turns red, and his breath turns shallow and rough. He tries for _her_ , and she can feel the determination driving the attempt. But in the end the satellite holds motionless in the distance. Erik folds forward over the wall, half-collapsing as his arms drop to the weather-smooth stone.

Charlie purses her lips, silent while Erik regains his breath. She speaks before he has a chance to utter his surrender aloud.

"I've always believed that true focus lies somewhere between rage and serenity." 

Erik turns to regard her over his shoulder, his face still flushed with his recent exertion. His breath evens out at last, and he straightens, bracing his hands on the stone banister.

"Do you mind if I…?" Charlie gestures towards her temple, and Erik gives an uncertain nod.

The memory she finds is beautiful. 

It's a bright, powerful corner of Erik's mind, guarded and precious. A moment in time even he doesn't realize is there. Charlie draws it to the surface, and she shivers at the beauty of that moment, the innocent intensity of it. Wetness swells at the corners of her eyes and then trails down her cheeks. 

There are matching tears on Erik's face, and for a long moment neither of them moves.

When Erik reaches out a second time, the satellite twists slowly but inexorably towards them. Charlie stands giddy with victory, and she can feel the ragged rush of matching emotion emanating from Erik, warming the empty space between them. 

She allows a small smile to meet the frantic grin distorting Erik's face.

Then Moira calls them from inside, and as quickly as that the moment passes. 

Charlie squeezes Erik's shoulder once, and then makes her way back up the drive.

\- — - — - — -

After the president's address, Erik waits as nearly everyone disperses. Raven and Charlie discuss something in hushed tones near the window, the only two presences remaining. Their voices are too soft for Erik to make out the thread of their conversation, but he's not trying to eavesdrop. He's simply waiting because, with the thrill of anticipation suddenly sharp along his skin, he knows he and Charlie have unfinished business.

The low murmur of voices stops at last, and Raven draws Charlie into a hug. Charlie returns the embrace, and several seconds pass in a calm sort of silence. Erik hovers in the doorway, out of place but not inclined to retreat. 

Raven pauses as she passes him, turns to regard him with eyes so penetrating they feel like accusation.

"Is everything all right?" he asks. 

"If you're the man she thinks you are, then yes. Everything's fine."

And then Raven is gone, and it's Charlie at his elbow. Her blue eyes are bright with too many emotions, and all Erik's own questions lodge unspoken in his chest.

"She's worried," Charlie says. "About tomorrow. About me. She knows I can't leave her behind this time. She wants to protect me."

"That bothers you," Erik says, finding his voice at last.

Charlie sighs and crosses her arms over her chest. She shakes her head tiredly.

"It doesn't feel right, putting her in danger like this. I'm supposed to protect _her_ , not the other way around. I feel responsible for her." Charlie pauses then, a distracted look crossing her face and pulling her attention elsewhere. The past, maybe. Erik doesn't ask, and a moment later Charlie shakes herself free from her thoughts. "Come on."

She takes his hand, and her fingers are warm and strong as they twine through his. She pulls him through the door, down the corridor. Up a dim stairway that curls into one wall and leads into the wide hallway above.

The library is in this corridor, and Erik briefly wonders if that's their destination. There's a fireplace in there, and a chessboard. They've passed more than one evening that way since arriving in Westchester.

But Charlie leads him silently past the library and farther down the hall, around a corner to the right. Erik recognizes the door she stops at, though he's never been through it.

"Your room," he observes. 

She smiles and lets go of his hand. Then she opens the door and steps aside to hold it wide, a silent invitation.

Erik accepts without hesitation, stepping over the threshold and watching her close and lock the door behind them. He doesn't look around the room. He's too busy looking at her. Then he's moving towards her, the inexorable tug of gravity; as he draws close, Charlie has to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.

"I should warn you," he murmurs, crowding her against the door. "I may not be very good at this."

"Very good at what?" she asks, but the teasing in her voice carries only fondness and heat. He crowds closer, pressing his palms to the smooth wood to either side of her body.

"You know perfectly well what." He leans in and presses a lingering kiss to her temple, then another to her jaw, before drawing back to meet her eyes. "My experience has been… somewhat limited."

"You've had other priorities," Charlie observes dryly. She touches him with curious fingers, tracing a slow path over his cheek. 

"Yes." Erik captures her hand in his own, stilling her touch so he can press a kiss to her palm.

"What about now?" she asks. She sounds breathless, and Erik is gratified. He wants to know he can affect her even a fraction of the way her presence overwhelms him. Whatever this is, he wants to know he's not in it alone.

"Right now I want to take you to bed," he says. Then he kisses her; gently at first, more fiercely when she slips her arms around him and opens for the press of his tongue. He lays claim, and she welcomes him, holds him close. When he lifts her from the floor, she wraps her legs around him and gasps against his lips. 

She fits perfectly against him.

Her bed is a monstrosity of sculpted wood, but Erik barely notices as he drops them both without ceremony, the mattress giving softly beneath his back. He's focused entirely on the way Charlie feels as she settles astride him, the way she looks now, in the moonlight pouring through wide windows. Neither of them turned on the lights when they came in, but Erik can see her perfectly as she tugs her shirt over her head and then sets to work at the buttons of his trousers.

"Come here," he whispers, and his voice is ragged steel. She follows when he tugs her forward, off balance; and as he kisses her, his hands begin to learn the contours of her skin.

Hours later—when the moon has gone into hiding and Erik can't sleep for the distraction of the warm body in his arms—he tries not to think about tomorrow's confrontation. His mind struggles against his efforts, accustomed to the familiar ground of battle strategies and violence, eager to fall into the usual bloody patterns.

"We'll stop him," Charlie whispers, interrupting the spin of his thoughts. 

He can barely see her in the darkness, but she shifts in his arms and her eyes reflect what little light the room has to offer.

"It won't be enough," Erik says, grim certainty in his bones. "No matter what happens tomorrow, the humans will still fear us. They'll still hate us. It's only a matter of time."

"No," Charlie says, and there's quiet strength in the word. "Not if we risk our lives preventing a war. Not if we can stop Shaw."

Erik doesn't merely plan to stop Shaw, though. He plans to kill him. It's the driving force that put him in Charlie's path, and it's the one vow he knows he has to keep. But Erik doesn't say that. Charlie's already seen so much of him. Of course she's seen that, too.

"Would they do the same for us?" Erik asks instead, and his thumb grazes back and forth over the bare skin of Charlie's shoulder.

"It doesn't matter what they would do. We have it in us to be better than them."

"We already _are_ better than them," Erik growls. He's angry now. Not at Charlie, but at the thought of the humans. At the thought of their inevitable fear, their hatred, the possibility that Charlie's persistent naiveté will get her hurt. Or maybe it's not anger turning his words rough. Maybe it's fear. He tries to soften his tone. "You said it first. We're the next stage in human evolution."

"I didn't mean it like that." 

"You can't be this blind." Erik's arms tighten around Charlie, fear and anger twisting beneath his skin. "After tomorrow, they'll turn on us, but you refuse to see it. You believe they're all like Moira."

"And you believe they're all like Shaw," Charlie whispers. True as it is, the accusation stings, and Erik loosens his hold. Charlie shifts against him, but she doesn't pull back. Instead she braces herself on one elbow so she can look at his face in the limited light. Her hand is warm and heavy over his heart, and even in the darkness there's a terrifying intensity in her eyes.

"Erik, listen to me. Very carefully." 

She pauses, and the quiet is stifling. An instant later, the silence shatters, though Charlie's words are impossibly soft. 

"Killing Shaw will not bring you peace."

Erik's blood chills and his skin feels tight. He knows she's right. He knows that, no matter what choices he makes tomorrow, Charlie's words are a portent, carrying the undeniable weight of truth.

But Charlie's truth changes nothing. Erik knows what he has to do, and truth is no deterrent to convictions as strong as his. He meets Charlie's eyes with a cool steadiness he doesn't feel.

"Peace was never an option."

\- — - — - — -

Charlie shares the sensations of Shaw's death first-hand: the terror, the fury, the frantic desperation. She feels the grinding pain of a living soul being methodically and deliberately destroyed. She feels it as though it's her own death; and after he's gone, she collapses in Moira's arms, shocked that her own lungs are still moving.

She can't feel Erik's mind, but when she steps out of the wrecked plane and onto the beach, the sight of him wearing Shaw's helmet still blindsides her. She saw the same thing with Shaw's eyes before the end, but this is worse. It nearly sends her to her knees. 

This is wrong. Everything about it is wrong. 

Erik's speech sends shattered chills along Charlie's skin, and she can't process this. There's more than just anger in the sermon he crafts—as he drops Shaw's body to the sand and points a finger at the armadas just beyond the beach. 

There's hatred. There's hatred in every terrifying word.

And then there are the missiles in the air, the rapid approach of violent death, the ease with which Erik gestures and simply catches the missiles out of their paths. There's the gut-jolting moment when Charlie realizes what Erik intends to do, and she watches the missiles spin slowly in midair until every one of them points back the way it came.

She can't let Erik do this. He's a better man than this. He has to be.

She approaches him with quiet steps, and the sand slips awkwardly beneath her boots. He stands poised, ready to launch his attack, but waiting. Considering, maybe. Or perhaps simply waiting for her.

"Don't," she says when she reaches his side.

"I have to. It's the only way we'll be safe." The only way _she'll_ be safe, his eyes say when he belatedly turns his gaze on her.

"I need you, Erik. I need you at my side."

"You have me." His voice sounds wrecked, and she wants to see his thoughts. She wants the slightest glimpse to guide her words and reassure her that he's listening. But there's that damned helmet in the way, and Charlie shakes her head.

"Not like this. Not at this price. I can't let you kill them." She pauses and swallows, her throat gritty, her chest tight. "Please don't make me fight you."

"I don't want to hurt you," Erik whispers.

"Then let them go."

There's a wretched moment where she doesn't know what he'll do. The missiles still hover in the air, vicious and threatening, and Erik's eyes are dark with vengeful fire.

Then he drops his hand. The missiles fall, exploding harmlessly in the sky or falling beneath the waves without detonating. The moment passes. And Charlie remembers how to breathe.

  


\- — - — - — -  
 **Epilogue**  
\- — - — - — -

Charlie wipes Moira's memories of Westchester almost the second they return. She hates to do it, but she has little choice. Erik is right about the potential dangers. 

Charlie may have higher hopes for humanity, but hope doesn't call for stupidity. There are precautions they have to take, and Moira's unchecked knowledge would pose too great a risk, no matter her intentions.

Charlie is careful to take away nothing more than necessary, but she hates it just the same. It's a painful reminder of what she can do. She has the capacity to accomplish unforgivable things, and the thought is sobering.

She remembers Erik's words, though. His insistence that she's not a monster. It surprises her how much the remembered reassurance helps.

Erik finds her after Moira has gone, though Charlie has hidden herself deliberately away from the others. There's a window seat on the very top floor, an off-putting, overheated little alcove with a beautiful view of the grounds. Erik finds her, and Charlie's face warms with gratitude.

"It had to be this way," Erik says, quiet movements bringing him to her side. His hand settles on her shoulder, warm comfort. "You did the right thing. It's for her own good as well as ours."

"It's still an awful thing to do to a friend."

"She would understand." Erik's fingers tighten on her shoulder, and he pauses before asking, "What happens now?"

"Now we prepare," Charlie says. She doesn't look at him. She keeps her eyes trained through the window, watching the quiet grounds outside. "We're almost ready to open the school. We'll train ourselves to defend this place. We'll protect each other."

"That won't be enough."

Charlie closes her eyes and covers his hand with her own. She wonders, _knows_ , for an instant, that he's right. But she can't afford to think that way when there's this much at stake.

She draws a slow breath and squeezes his hand.

"It will have to be."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the indescribably wonderful **[giandujakiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/giandujakiss)** , who won me for **[Fandom Helps](http://fandom-helps.dreamwidth.org/)** , oh so many months ago. Thank you _so much_ for bidding on me, hon. And for the amazing prompts, and for your kind and endless patience along the way. I hope the story satisfies. It was a fascinating challenge, and I hope I did some of your wonderful prompts justice.


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